Break Free, Let Me Go
by Lillielle
Summary: Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry's always known she doesn't match up with people's expectations of her. From home, where the Dursleys despise her, to school, where it seems no one but her Potions professor and new friend even understand. Can Harry ever break free of other people and just be herself? (Trans Harry story.)
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes: This is my story for Camp Nanowrimo, in April. This is going to update rather fast. Warning throughout for abuse, bullying, transphobia, and transmisogyny. Hope you enjoy!_

Harry is five when she sees Aunt Petunia step out of the bath for the first time. There is a smooth place between her aunt's legs, though covered in hair, and Harry wonders when hers will look like that.

"Aunt Petunia?" she manages to speak up, after dinner when she is washing the plates and looking rather longingly at the leftovers.

"What?" her aunt snaps, looking up rather sourly from her cup of tea.

"When is this going to fall off?" Harry points awkwardly at her crotch, encased in baggy trousers threatening to fall off her hips. Aunt Petunia looks at her in confusion.

"What? Your penis? It doesn't," the woman says and gulps cooling tea.

"But it must," Harry persists, setting down the last plate in confusion. "I'm supposed to look like you. I'm like you, Aunt Petunia!"

The effect on Petunia Dursley is galvanic. The tea cup slams to the table with a rattle, and Harry finds herself dragged off to the cupboard under the stairs by her ear, her aunt's grip like claws.

"You will never be like me," Petunia hisses through the grate at the thoroughly bewildered and now crying five-year-old girl. "You're a _freak_, that's all you are! _A freak!_"

After that, Harry knows to keep her mouth shut. To stifle the tears that threaten when Aunt Petunia virtually shaves her head (although it all grows back overnight, and she hasn't the faintest how-no matter how her uncle blusters and threatens). To accept the ripped and dirty hand-me-downs from her fat, bullying cousin, no matter how much she longs to be allowed to wear skirts and blouses and those knee socks with ruffles at the top that Sally Mueller wears every Friday and gloats about how expensive they are. Really, Harry is more of a tomboy, but it's the _principle_ of the thing, you know?

Uncle Vernon despises her, Dudley treats her like his own personal punching bag, and Aunt Petunia looks at her with the strangest mixture of pity, condescension, and disgust Harry's ever seen. Even from Mrs. Tetley, the counselor at her primary school that always gives her funny looks at break and passes her apples at lunch when no one's looking. _You need your strength,_ she always tells Harry, and Harry always pretends not to notice the strange wobble in the woman's voice.

The other students are as bad as Dudley, really. Even if her cousin hadn't been around, Tommy Jakes sees Harry fiddling around with a hair bow she found on the street, and everyone teases her about it. She knows better than to speak up and say she's really a girl. It won't end well. She has the black eyes, split lips, and bruised knees to prove it. _You shouldn't hit a girl!_ But somehow that doesn't matter when it comes to Harry. She guesses it's because Aunt Petunia's right. She is a freak.

The thing between her legs (she refuses to call it a penis, in dismal hope that it will eventually realise it's unwanted) never falls off. She shoots up a few inches, her hair grows even more untidy-much to Aunt Petunia's despair and Uncle Vernon's censure. It seems like it will never change, never get better.

Until the day, a few days into summer break, when Harry pokes through the mail as usual and uncovers a vellum envelope addressed to _her._

And more importantly, addressed to _Miss H. Potter._

And for a few moments, just a few, the world gleams that much brighter.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Notes: Skipping ahead a bit. :)_

It's a bewildered, overwhelmed, and rather terrified Harry who finally takes her seat on the Hogwarts Express. Thankfully, she's found an empty compartment, but she's sure it's only a matter of time before _someone_ barges in, and she doesn't know what to do when that happens.

It's been an odd month, she reflects as she props her feet up on the opposite seat. The Dursleys treated her like she was utterly invisible most of the time-and while it was an improvement on being shoved round, hit, and insulted, it did get rather lonely after a while. Hagrid was lovely, but he kept getting confused and calling her a boy, which felt like a thousand knife-prickles down her neck after the first time. At least all her clothes were girls'-Madame Malkin had been the most understanding person Harry had ever met, and kept telling her not to worry, while stuffing her new trunk with extra items "at no charge, love, it's no trouble at all!" She still doesn't know what half of them are meant for!

A knock at the door disturbs her reverie, and Harry jolts up to see a girl standing there, shuffling from foot to foot. She has masses of bushy brown hair, a rather prominent overbite, and she has somehow managed to already change into her robes.

"Can I sit with you?" she asks in a bossy tone. "Everywhere else is full."

"Sure," Harry smiles a bit awkwardly and stuffs all her things off to the side.

"I'm Hermione," the girl introduces herself with an out-thrust hand. "Hermione Granger. And you are?"

"Harry Potter," Harry mumbles, uncomfortably aware of the usual reaction to her. As predicted, the girl's eyes dart to her forehead, covered by a messy fringe.

"You're the Boy Who Lived!" Hermione blurts.

"_Girl,_" Harry corrects in an even lower mumble, but somehow Hermione still manages to hear. Her brow crinkles in confusion.

"Girl? What d'you mean?"

"I'm a girl," Harry says, gnawing her bottom lip nervously. Hermione's brow wrinkles further.

"Like-a curse or something? Did someone hex you? Oh, I'm sure I've read about that somewhere!" The girl dives into her trunk, rummaging through a massive pile of books, and Harry feels like sinking into her seat and disappearing forever.

"It's not a curse!" Harry finally squeaks out, her ears burning. Hermione pauses, looking at her in utter perplexity.

"I'm just-a girl, okay? I don't know why my body doesn't agree with me, or why everyone thinks I'm a boy, but I'm not, I'm a _girl_, even Hogwarts knows it, see?" Harry fishes out the much-beloved, much-wrinkled envelope addressed to _Miss H. Potter_ and offers it for Hermione's perusal.

"Oh," Hermione says, looking rather pink. "_Oh,_ I know what you are! Maybe. I haven't read very much about it and I didn't bring any books on the subject because I didn't think I would need to, but I think you're transgender."

"What's that mean?" Harry looks blankly at the bushy-haired girl.

"Transgender. Trans means across or beyond. It means someone whose gender isn't what they were assigned at birth, I think," Hermione recites, still pink-faced. "So you would be a trans girl, if I remember correctly. And that's so lovely that Hogwarts recognises it! I wonder if we'll be in the same House. I don't know what one I'd like to be in. Either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, I think."

"I just hope I get _into_ one," Harry says in a gloomy sort of way, kicking her trainers against the seat. "I mean, can you imagine? If you weren't up to snuff and they just sent you straight home? The Dursleys wouldn't be too pleased." She shudders.

"I'm sure that won't happen," Hermione comforts, giving Harry's leg an awkward pat. "I mean, you're the Boy-I mean, the Girl-Who Lived! They couldn't possibly kick you out."

"If you say so," Harry shrugs. Privately, she's still convinced that they will take one look at her and kick her right out. For being a freak, just like Aunt Petunia always says.

The rest of the train ride passes in a bit of a blur. Harry buys everything she can off the sweets trolley and shares it with Hermione, who at first demurs and says she can't because her parents are dentists, but participates willingly enough when Harry points out it's not every day you find _wizarding sweets_. She decides her favourites are cauldron cakes and licorice wands. Chocolate frogs are sweet enough, and she likes the cards, but the fact they move makes her shudder, and she's not the only one. Hermione still looks green around the gills when the Express slows to a stop.

"Time to go!" Hermione says, and Harry musters a sickly smile in reply.

"Are you all right?" Hermione crooks her head to the side. Harry nods, feeling her stomach slosh.

"Perfectly," she croaks, gathering her things. She changed into her robes midway through, and they at least fit properly (for the first time she can remember), but she still feels like an unwelcome stranger.

"Then let's go!" Hermione squeals, and Harry reluctantly follows.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Notes: Thank you for the follows/favourites/reviews, you all are lovely. :) Onward!_

The Great Hall is the biggest room Harry's ever been in. She can't stop fidgeting with the sleeves of her robes as she looks around, cringing at the whispers that ripple across the tables when the older students catch sight of her. _Isn't that? Potter's come to Hogwarts! The Boy Who Lived?_ It's maddening, and if it wasn't for Hermione's reassuring presence next to her, Harry's certain she would make a break for it, right back out the doors. Even magic can't be worth this, can it?

"A hat? All we've got to do is try on a hat?" she echoes blankly when the last notes of the Sorting Hat's song die away.

"I'll kill Fred, he was going on about wrestling a troll," a red-headed boy with masses of freckles and a dirt smudge on his nose grumbles behind her. _A troll?_ Harry thinks, wide-eyed. _Must be his brother,_ she decides two seconds later, thinking about all the play-yard interactions between siblings she's seen. They do that, don't they? Teasing?

McGonagall calls them up alphabetically. "Bones, Susan" gets Sorted into Hufflepuff with an enormous smile on her face. "Goyle, Gregory" into Slytherin.

"Granger, Hermione!" and then Hermione is gone with a regretful glance back. The Hat ponders on her head for what seems like ages, before the enormous rip on its brim opens wide and shouts "Ravenclaw!" to the Hall. She nearly skips to the proper table.

"Malfoy, Draco" is the boy Harry met in Madam Malkin's and he looks just as thoroughly unpleasant as he did in Diagon Alley, swaggering up to the stool with a smirk. The Hat barely touches his head before it yells "Gryffindor," and the smirk is wiped off his face.

"What?" the boy demands, sneering at the Hat before throwing it to the ground in disgust. "I'm not a bloody _Gryffindor_. I demand a ReSorting! My father will hear about this!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall says, retrieving the Hat, mouth thinning. "But the Hat's decision is final. Please take your seat."

Blustering and defiant, the blond boy finally makes his way to the red-and-gold table, but Harry can see the glimmer of fear in his eyes and wonders why. It's patently obvious the rest of his House can't stand him, but that doesn't seem like enough, does it? _"My father will hear about this."_ Is he afraid of his father? Harry wonders but is quickly distracted by the continuation of the Sorting and the unpleasant realisation that her turn is coming up far too soon.

"Potter, Harry," McGonagall announces, and the room goes unearthly silent. Harry trudges up, feeling like she's going to be sick any moment. The professor gives her an encouraging sort of look and says, rather loudly and deliberately, "Come on, Miss Potter. Try on the Hat."

"Miss? Did she say miss?" Harry hears a piercing whisper before the Hat droops over her ears.

"_Ah, Miss Potter, I was wondering when you would turn up,_" a voice says in her head, making her jump. "_No need to worry, Miss Potter, it's only the Hat,_" the Sorting Hat reassures her. "_Now where to put you? You'd do quite well in any House, you know. Clever, loyal, brave, with a thirst to prove yourself. But I think there's only one House you'll find the belonging you seek, though you may not know it yet. Better be...__  
_

"Ravenclaw!" the Hat yells to the rest of the Hall, and it is a dazed and befuddled Harry who hands the Hat back to Professor McGonagall and makes her way, on legs that feel like stilts, to Hermione's side, who throws her arms around her and gives her the tightest hug she's ever felt. Some of the older students are chanting "We got Potter!" down the table. It's with a rather dopey grin on her face that Harry watches the end of the Sorting, "Weasley, Ron" being Sorted into Gryffindor and "Zabini, Blaise" ending up in Slytherin.

"Welcome to Ravenclaw," an older boy with a shock of brown hair whispers to the new first years. "You're going to love it."

Harry can't help but agree.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Notes: Thank you again! Since a couple of people have brought it up-I really don't think that Hermione knowing that trans people exist is too much for an 11-year-old? Especially considering it's Hermione, the girl who memorised all her textbooks before she even got to Hogwarts. All she really knows is that transgender people exist, and I can't see that as too much for her to know. *I* knew trans people existed when I was 11. Also, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm merrily throwing canon out the window because it's fun. XD I will keep doing that. Onward!_

Dinner is fantastic, and the trek up to Ravenclaw Tower more so. Harry has never seen moving paintings, or knights that tipped their helms to her as she walked past. Or Peeves. Although she thinks, after he tries to drop a bundle of walking sticks on all of them, she can do without meeting Peeves.

"Here we are," Robert Hilliard, one of the Prefects, announces, stopping before a very large, bronze eagle knocker. "The riddle for the first day tends to be simple..."

"What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?" intones the eagle, staring at them all with beady bronzed eyes.

"Man," Robert answers promptly, and the door swings open. "Remember," he adds, as the first years stream in. "Ravenclaw House has no traditional password, only riddles. Logic is needed to enter our House. But also remember-the knocker is kind, and its riddles are geared toward the age of the student, the knowledge of the student, and even the general health of the student. If you are an exhausted first year, have no fears that you will be unable to get in."

"Good," Harry heaves a sigh of relief. She's never been very good at logic puzzles, and more than one thought of being stuck outside the common room like a nit has flashed through her mind.

"Ah, Professor Flitwick," Robert says in surprise. Harry swivels her head round to see a very small, ugly-looking man with a lot of beard making his way into the room.

"Harry? Harry Potter?" the professor asks, scanning the crowd. Hermione gives Harry an encouraging push forward, and Flitwick's eyes land on her with delight. "Ah, Miss Potter, this way, if you please?"

Harry makes her way obediently enough to an isolated corner of the common room. The common room really is brilliant, she decides on the way, looking around as discreetly as she can. Coloured with blues and bronzes, it's massive, and full of little nooks and crannies, some with desks and some with tables, and everywhere, books.

"Minerva informed me of your...situation," Professor Flitwick says quietly. "It is a delight to see you in my House, Miss Potter."

"Thank you," Harry mumbles, staring down at the bronze-flecked carpet, her face burning.

"I would have thought-Gryffindor, like your parents-but no matter," her Head of House dismisses it with a shake of his head. "Now, Miss Potter, I presume you have no desire to stay in the boys' dormitory?"

"Bollocks, no," Harry blurts out, then flushes even redder. "Sorry, sir," she tacks on. Flitwick laughs.

"It's all right, Miss Potter. And I did not think so. For that matter, I'm not sure Hogwarts would even let you in! So in that case..." Professor Flitwick's eyes scan the room.

"Penelope! Miss Clearwater? This way, please?"

A rather tall girl with very curly dark hair pops up, her Prefect badge shining in the flickering light.

"Help Miss Potter and the other first year girls get situated, would you?" the Professor inquires. Penelope flicks a startled look at Harry, before drawing herself up and nodding briskly.

"Of course, Professor," she answers. "Come on, Potter. Harry, was it? Or erm...something else?"

"Harry's fine," Harry says quickly.

As she files past with the other first years, she sees an older girl with a turned-up nose and a rather spiteful expression turn and sneer to her friend, just loud enough for Harry to overhear, "If _he's_ a girl, then I'm a bloody Bubotuber, who does he think he's fooling?"

Tears prickle Harry's eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. Penelope stops dead in her tracks just ahead, nearly making Harry trip.

"Your face does need to be popped," she says sweetly to the girl, who flushes dark red, muttering imprecations under her breath.

"Ignore her," Penelope murmurs in an aside. "Chloe Brinker. Nasty piece of work. Thinks everyone is beneath her."

"Thanks," Harry whispers in gratitude. Hermione gives her an enormous smile and squeezes her hand.

"We get to be dorm mates!" Hermione hisses, eyes sparkling.

"This is the first year girls' dorm," Penelope announces, swinging open the door.

A rather small girl with straggly blonde hair stands up inside, her face wreathed in an airy smile, radishes dangling from her ears.

"Hello," the girl says. "I'm Luna."


	5. Chapter 5

_Author's Notes: Did I mention this story is fast-paced updates-wise? Thank you all again for the reviews and stuff! :)_

"Luna?" Penelope echoes, looking as lost as Harry feels. "Oh, that's right. Lovegood? Professor Flitwick told me about you." The straggly-haired girl smiles, and Harry notices for the first time her feet are bare.

"This is Luna Lovegood," Penelope addresses the rest of the group in a louder tone. "She's ten years old, but due to special circumstances, she's come to Hogwarts a year early. She'll be taking some classes with you. I want you all to welcome her and make her feel at home."

With that, Penelope leaves them to get settled. Harry finds herself claiming a bed between the mysterious Luna and Hermione.

"Hi," Harry offers awkwardly to the blonde-haired girl. "I'm Harry."

"I know who you are," Luna says, a serene smile quirking her mouth. "Father's out of the country for the next two years, searching for a new sub-species of erumpent, so he decided with Headmaster Dumbledore that I should come to Hogwarts early rather than a year late." A frown settles between Luna's brows at the mention of Dumbledore.

"I guess that makes sense," Harry says, rearranging her trunk a bit. Hermione won't stop giving Luna uncertain glares. "This is Hermione, by the way," Harry adds, hooking a thumb toward the bushy-haired girl, who flushes scarlet and mumbles a strangled greeting.

"Is your name from Shakespeare?" Luna asks with interest. Hermione blinks, then nods once. "I thought so," Luna smiles. "You have the look. Good night, Harry. Good night, Hermione. Pleasant dreams. I hope the Nargles don't wake you."

And with that, the eccentric child closes her bed curtains with a slight thump.

"She's loony," Morag MacDougal hisses from the next bed, eyes alight with mischief.

"Lay off," Harry defends, surprising herself. "She's just different, that's all." _Like me,_ she adds in her head as she slips under her own covers. The bed is sinfully soft, nothing like her own threadbare mattress at the Dursleys', and she snuggles into it with a luxuriant sigh.

Her dreams are broken and uneasy, full of flashes of green light and a high, cruel laugh that makes Harry's ears hurt. She wakes up early, her sheets soaked in sweat, bolting up and panting for breath in the grey light of the dormitory.

"Just a dream," Harry whispers to herself, with a shaky laugh. A bathroom trip is more than in order, and it's a good thing she manages to go first before realising Luna's in one of the shower cubicles, wrapped up in an enormous, fluffy blanket and staring at nothing.

"Luna?" she hisses, alarm prickling the back of her neck. "Luna, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Luna replies, but her eyes are still painfully blank and Harry can see the infinitesimal tremble in her fingers.

"I had a bad dream," Harry decides to share, sitting down on the ice-cold tiles next to the younger girl. "Did you?"

"You could call it that," Luna says, her voice still airy, but at least there is a bit more self-awareness in light grey eyes when she peers up at Harry. "Oh, it's you, Harry. You look dreadful."

"Thanks," Harry says wryly.

"Like your head is full of Wrackspurts," Luna nods. She starts playing with the ends of her hair. "Harry?" she finally looks up again, peering at Harry in earnest.

"Yeah?" Harry asks, shifting her weight. The tiles really are _freezing_, and her bum feels like it might turn to ice at this rate.

"Will you be my friend?" Luna says, her eyes overly large, her mouth shaking just a bit, and those ridiculous radish earrings bobbing against her neck.

"Sure," Harry replies, unprepared for Luna throwing herself into her lap, fluffy blanket and all. She nearly tips right over before managing to steady herself and give Luna a very awkward hug back.

"Let's go back to sleep, okay," Harry suggests, eager to get away from the cold tiles and painfully bright lights. Luna nods dreamily and virtually floats upright, her blanket still tucked tight around herself.

"Good night again, Harry," Luna whispers and tiptoes past her. Harry runs a hand through her sweaty fringe and sighs before following her. She can use a few more hour's sleep if she can get it.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Notes: Not much to say, really. I hope you're all enjoying it. :) Onward!_

The alarm blares much too early for Harry, who immediately shoves her head under her pillow to block it out. After her early morning fright, she's only gotten two more hours of sleep, and it's not nearly enough.

"Come on, Harry!" Hermione's bossy voice intrudes, and the pillow is yanked away. Harry rolls over on her back to glare at her new-found friend, who looks completely unrepentant and far too awake for this time of day. "We're going to be the last ones down to breakfast at this rate," Hermione bemoans, flapping her arms a bit in distress.

"Fine," Harry grumbles and forces herself out of bed. They are the last two in the first years' dormitory, much to Harry's surprise. Even Luna's bed is neatly made up, the only sign of the odd girl a necklace made out of very large corks hung over the bedpost.

Despite Hermione's concerns, the Great Hall is only half-filled when they make it down, after getting lost twice and having a run-in with Peeves-who was surprisingly helpful in guiding them down the correct corridor, even if he did pelt Hermione with a water balloon. Her hair is still damp, and Harry can just barely catch the angry murmurs directed at the frizzy mop.

"Sleep well?" Penelope asks down the table, to a general chorus of agreement. Even Luna nods, although Harry can see a subtle shiftiness in her expression. Probably the same as her own, really, since she has no desire to try to tell anyone the confused jumble of nightmares that marked her first night at Hogwarts.

Robert passes out the schedules and Harry looks down at hers with curiousity. Most of their classes are with Hufflepuff, it seems, although one Potions class every week is shared with Gryffindor, and one Charms class is shared with Slytherin. _Interesting, _Harry thinks, stuffing her schedule into her book-bag. They have Charms first and at least she can feel safe in that. Professor Flitwick is her Head of House, and she already knows how _he_ feels about her. She has no such guarantee about the rest of the professors.

Especially the sallow-faced, hook-nosed one with very greasy-looking black hair who can't seem to stop glaring at her. Penelope told her last night his name was Professor Snape. When she looked at him then, sat next to stuttering Professor Quirrell, her scar had hurt like mad. Today, her scar feels fine, although he doesn't look any kinder.

"What's Professor Snape teach again?" Harry pipes up, after swallowing her mouthful of toast. Robert's the one who looks around, giving her an encouraging sort of smile.

"Potions," he answers. "You've got it after lunch, I think."

"Thanks," Harry says, feeling her stomach turn sour. _Great,_ she thinks, prodding her scrambled eggs with her fork. _I don't even get a full day here before meeting someone who hates me._

"Don't worry, Harry," Luna says beside her, startling her. "Professor Snape's just plagued by Wrackspurts, I think."

"Those don't exist," Hermione breaks in sharply, her tone rather brittle. Luna just looks at her, tilting her head to one side.

"You would say that," Luna nods, then gets up and skips off, slinging her book-bag over one shoulder. Harry notices that she is still barefoot.

"She is mental," Hermione declares, shaking her head.

"She's just different," Harry repeats, cheeks colouring. "There's nothing wrong with different, Hermione."

"If you say so," Hermione says, but she looks greatly unconvinced.

The first half of the day goes rather well, even if Harry despairs of ever learning how to flick her wand correctly, and before she knows it, Potions is fast approaching. All through lunch, she just picks at her food, until even Mandy Brocklehurst, a very earnest-eyed Ravenclaw first year, tells her to knock it off and just _eat_ for Merlin's sake. But she can't. Every time she looks up, Snape's glittering dark eyes are on her, glaring at her, and the thought of swallowing another bite makes her throat lock up.

"Let's just get this over with," Harry finally says, pushing away her plate with a sigh. The walk down to the dungeons feels like a trip to the gallows. All Harry can wonder is why does Professor Snape hate her so much?


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Notes: I'm perpetually surprised by how much people like this story. :) But it makes me happy. (Also in regards to a certain reviewer-ah, okay. Hermione doesn't really have gender identity books, it's just that she's come across gender and orientation things and read about them. Hope that clears that up. :) ) Onward._

The slam of the door makes Harry jump, and she's not the only one. Professor Snape certainly knows how to make an entrance, she thinks, watching the man stride up the center aisle, robes flaring to either side like bat wings. On the other side of the room, a round-faced boy who she thinks is named Neville Longbottom makes a choked whimpering sound.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," Professor Snape says icily when he reaches the podium. "As such, I don't expect many of you to understand the subtle science or exact art that is potion-making..."

He continues and Harry is not the only one who rushes to scribble down the professor's exact words. Well, on the Ravenclaw side, anyway. From the corner of her eye, she can see nobody in the Gryffindor contingent doing so.

"Ah, Miss Potter, our new..celebrity," Professor Snape drawls, freezing Harry in her chair with an odd blend of surprise and terror. "Interesting to see _you_ in Ravenclaw, of all places...perhaps you have not inherited your father's lack of brains."

Harry's cheeks flush at the insult to James Potter, but she bites her tongue, so hard it hurts, to avoid answering in kind.

The class proceeds, Snape barking questions to a petrified-looking Ronald Weasley. Something about bezoars, aconite, and the Draught of Living Death. Harry doesn't manage to scribble it all down, so she hopes that if she asks Hermione nicely later, she'll be allowed to copy.

"Today, we will be making a simple potion to cure boils," Snape sneers, flicking his wand at the blackboard, which fills with neatly lettered instructions in chalk. "Get in pairs and begin."

Harry ends up with Hermione, a fact she is more than pleased with, considering Hermione's ease at regurgitating the textbook. On the other side of the room, she can see Ronald paired up with Malfoy and winces.

"What?" Hermione whispers curiously. Harry grabs a basket to carry their ingredients back in and jerks her head subtly to the side, indicating the volatile pair. "Glad I'm on this side of the room," Hermione murmurs, and Harry has to bite her lip to keep from snorting.

With Hermione as her partner, the potion is a breeze. Harry is rather pleased to discover that she's no slouch herself. All those years slaving for the Dursleys and preparing all their meals seems to have had some benefit. She can dice things finer than even Hermione, and Snape has no scathing words for the pair. No matter how sullen he looks about it.

"Acceptable," he finally pronounces, and turns away with a haughty sniff.

It's moments after, when they are just starting to bottle up their potion, that they hear a very ominous-sounding whistling coming from the Gryffindor side of the room. Then a loud explosion, and Harry jumps backward before she can stop herself, nearly crumpling into a bench.

"Idiot boy!" she hears Professor Snape snarl. A few waves of the man's wand, and the smoke clears itself. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills _before_ you took the cauldron off the fire?"

A sniveling, whimpering Neville Longbottom nods painfully as Snape also clears away the spilled potion. What he can, anyway, considering bits of it have eaten holes in the wood.

"Get to the Hospital Wing," Professor Snape sneers. "You and anyone else hit by the potion. Ten points from Gryffindor. And you," he adds in a quieter tone, glaring at Harry. "Meet me after dinner, Potter. It is not a request."

Harry opens her mouth to protest, but before she can utter a word, Hermione drags her away with a cheery "She'll be there, Professor!" and a warning glance at the sputtering first-year.

"He'll take points," Hermione finally says outside, her eyes very round and glassy.

"Are you all right?" Harry says, changing the subject.

"Fine," the girl replies in a brittle sort of tone that sounds anything but. "Now come on, we'll be late for History of Magic."

And with that, the subject is closed.


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Notes: Thank you again for all the reviews/follows/etc.! Also, I agree, it's nice to "fix" canon-verse ehe. Onward. :)_

Harry tiptoes down to the dungeon after dinner with a pounding headache threatening at her temples and more than a bit of nausea pressing her lips together. She couldn't eat much at dinner either. At this rate, Hogwarts will be worse for her digestion than the Dursleys! The thought isn't as humorous as she means it to be, and she banishes it with reluctance as she knocks on the Potions classroom door.

"Come in," she hears Snape's acerbic tone, as the door slowly creaks open.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Harry says, managing not to stammer. Professor Snape is seated behind the massive table at the front of the room, parchments already cluttering the scarred surface.

"Yes, Potter," the Potions professor snaps. "Close the door behind you, come here, and sit down."

Harry does as she's bid, shifting nervously in her chair.

"You are not what I expected, Potter," Snape finally says, regarding her with glittering black eyes that make her feel like an insect pinned to a card. Harry nods, twisting her fingers in her lap. "I thought you'd be in Gryffindor." The man's mouth twists in an ugly sneer.

"The Sorting Hat said I'd be happier in Ravenclaw, sir," Harry speaks up, and Snape's eyebrows slant down.

"Obviously, Potter, or I dare say you would not be wearing that tie," he replies witheringly. "You're not what anyone expected, are you? Everyone expected the _Boy_ Who Lived..."

"Everyone was wrong," Harry blurts out, feeling rather defiant. Her cheeks colour and she slumps back in her seat when Snape gives her that _look_ again.

"Obviously," Snape repeats. "Now-the purpose of this meeting. For reasons I cannot divulge at this time, you may notice my behaviour toward you rather...cruel in lessons. It is not personal, do not take it as such. And secondly..." Snape rummages around the table, pulling out a very battered-looking leaflet and pushing it toward Harry. "I believe you may find this useful."

With slightly trembling fingers, Harry reaches out and takes it, unfolding it to reveal a glittery banner that says _Hogwarts in Rainbow: A Group For Those Without a Refuge._

"It's for students such as yourself, Potter," Snape informs her briskly. "They meet every Thursday at seven p.m., just outside this classroom. If you arrive on time, an older student will guide you to the proper meeting place. It is, of necessity, quite hidden."

"Thank you, sir," Harry murmurs, eyes wide. There are _other_ students? Like her? It seems impossible and yet the proof is there, emblazoned across the crumpled parchment.

"You're welcome, Potter," Snape says, the words stilted and awkward. Like he hasn't spoken them in years. "Now," he pushes a piece of clean parchment across the table, along with a quill and ink stand. "Your penmanship is atrocious, Potter. Copy out 'My name is Harry Potter and I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' fifty times. Once you've finished, you can leave."

Despite the tedious work, Harry finds herself blooming into a constant grin. She's not alone, and that feeling is greater than anything she's ever known before, even finding out that she's a witch. Even Snape seems almost human by the end of her lines, which she shows him with a slightly triumphant smirk.

"Acceptable, Potter," Snape pronounces, studying her work. "Keep practicing, however. I will not be so lenient on your homework."

"Thank you, sir," Harry stammers, taking back the proffered sheaf and shoving it into her book-bag.

"Good night, Potter," Snape says, and Harry takes her cue, nearly skipping out of the Potions classroom before remembering she is probably supposed to seem far more chastened with what was, after all, technically a detention.

Hermione is lurking behind a suit of armour just by the steps, an uneasy look on her face that brightens when she sees Harry.

"Well?" she says eagerly, practically pouncing her friend. "How did it go?"

"He just wanted to talk to me about my penmanship," Harry says, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "Not much to talk about." The leaflet in her book-bag feels heavy as a boulder, but she isn't sure she wants to tell Hermione about it yet. Certainly not in a wide-open corridor.

"You were in there an awfully long time," Hermione trails off in doubt.

"Yeah, well, I've got rotten penmanship," Harry replies, crinkling her nose and making Hermione laugh.

"Come on," Hermione says, hastening up the broad stone steps. "If we hurry, we can get all our homework done before curfew!"

"Joy," Harry grumbles in mock annoyance, but she can't help the smile that still curls the corners of her mouth. She can't wait for Thursday.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's Notes: I live for reviews and stuff! Thank you! Also-yeah, because Harry's a girl and in Ravenclaw, Snape's not as nasty as he would have been otherwise. He sees a lot of Lily in Harry now. :P This chapter might be especially triggering at first. Onward! :)_

Harry can't wait for Thursday. The days pass in a blur of impatience until finally, it's Thursday morning, and when she wakes, she's virtually trembling in anticipation.

"Are you all right, Harry?" Luna asks dreamily from the next bed. She's already dressed. Small fairy bottles full of glitter dangle from her ears-a welcome change from the radishes.

"Huh?" Harry blinks at her, looking rather like an owl, especially with her glasses. "I mean, yeah," she tacks on, flushing as she gathers up her clothes to change in the privacy of a shower stall. She doesn't really feel comfortable changing in front of anyone else. The rest of the first years act at least mostly accepting, but the older students don't. Not all of them, anyway. Chloe was the most overt at first meeting, but she's noticed the stares, the pointed whispers, the scrawls of "she-boy" across the foot of her bed until Professor Flitwick found out and put a stop to it. It hurts. It hurts a lot, but now she can't wait to meet other people who are like her, albeit not thrust into the spotlight as much as she is, simply by virtue of what happened when she was a baby. Like _she_ knows how she defeated You Know Who.

"If you say so," Luna murmurs, giving her one of those stares that always make it look as if the straggly-haired girl is peering right through her. It's more than a bit creepy, and Harry feels a shiver slip down her spine as she clambers off the bed with her armful of clothes.

A shower makes her feel more human, and she makes it through lunch without anything too out of the ordinary happening. Until she realises that she's late to Transfiguration and more than that, she's _alone._

Unease makes the hairs on Harry's neck stand up, and she picks up her pace, her wand out and brandished in one hand. She'd rather be chastised by Professor McGonagall than be caught unawares, and she doesn't trust most of the school.

"Oh look at the ickle firstie," a mocking voice says behind her. She whirls, seeing an older boy she doesn't recognise, with a red-and-gold-striped tie. Gryffindor, then. "Poor ickle firstie. He thinks he's a _girl._ Funny, innit?"

"Yeah," another voice rumbles. Harry turns again, keeping her back to the wall to see another boy who looks vaguely familiar. Also a Gryffindor.

"Brave House you got there," Harry sneers. "Do you always have to travel in packs to pick on eleven-year-olds?" She presses her knees together to stop them trembling.

"Listen, freak," the first one starts, before Professor Snape seems to materialise out of nowhere, the glower on his face dark enough to scare even the bullies.

"Towler, Kirke, fifty points from Gryffindor," Snape snarls, his wand half-raised as if he intends to hex the two of them into submission. "_Each._ Your cowardice is deplorable, your insolence even more so. Detention. With the caretaker. For a week."

The two nod, whey-faced, and vanish, leaving behind a more-relieved-than-she-can-express Harry Potter.

"Thank you, sir," she whispers shyly. The Potions professor starts, as if he has forgotten Harry's presence, then nods shortly.

"I despise bullies," is all he says. "And Gryffindor even more," he sneers, making Harry snort. "Get to class, Potter," Professor Snape adds. "If Minerva questions your tardiness, tell her to speak to me."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbles and hurries off.

She doesn't tell Hermione or Luna what happened. She knows she probably should, but she can't seem to get the words past her throat. They stick there, uncomfortable and too large. She can't tell Hermione the fear that made her mouth dry up, the way they reminded her of Dudley and his gang. The surprise when Snape actually stood up for her and took points. The way they called her a freak. It's nothing new, not really, not when she has to live with the Dursleys, but it still stings, like a scraped knee or a burnt finger. It's not _fair_, but Harry doesn't have words for why.

It's with relief that evening that she makes her way down to the dungeons for the proposed refuge. She told Hermione the other day about it, and Hermione wished her luck, nose stuck in yet another hefty tome. Luna skips next to her the entire way, her hair pulled up in pigtails that make her look even younger.

"Where are you going?" Harry asks her, feeling awkward. Luna smiles.

"The same place you are," she points out. Harry notices that she's not wearing shoes again, and her socks are mismatched. Dancing music notes on one foot, dancing carrots on the other.

"Are you sure?" Harry hikes up one eyebrow in surprise. Then again, Luna _is_ pretty...different.

"Everyone needs a refuge," Luna says in that dreamy voice she gets when she doesn't want to properly explain things.

Outside Snape's classroom, an older girl lounges against the door. She looks like she's in seventh year, at least.

"Refuge?" the girl asks. Luna nods for both of them.

"Come on, then," the girl says. "Close your eyes. Both of you."

A blindfold slips itself across Harry's eyes. She panics for a moment, flailing until one of her hands strikes Luna's. Luna clasps her fingers and squeezes.

"Sorry," the girl's voice comes, apologetic. "But it's for safety."

They walk for what seems like ages, stumbling through drafty halls and over uneven stone. Until finally, they're before a door, and the blindfold's whisked off.

"Go on, then," the girl says, not unkindly. "Go in."

Harry pushes open the door, and finds herself shocked all over again.


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Notes: Can people not with the transmisogyny in reviews? It's not happened much, but I'm not really going to put up with it. You don't have to read this story if you don't like it. I'm also honestly primarily writing this for my wife, who's a trans girl herself, and she's my beta. Also, thank you for the lovely comments and follows, it makes me happy knowing that people like this. :) _

Harry more than half expects Snape to be there, so the sight of him in his customary black robes and scowl is not a surprise. But the number of people certainly is! There has to be more than twenty people in the room, and Harry's mouth gawps open as Luna gently pushes her inside.

"Shut your mouth, Harry, you don't want a Nargle nesting in it," Luna advises in a friendly tone, and Harry does so with a click of her teeth.

"Lovegood, Potter," Snape acknowledges. "Welcome to the first meeting of the Refuge."

"I thought it had a really long name," Harry replies, immediately colouring and feeling like an idiot. Snape smirks.

"It's a bit unwieldy to use every meeting," Snape says. "The Refuge is what it's commonly referred to. A sanctuary for those who are...different."

"What do you mean different?" Harry asks, stuffing her hands awkwardly in her pockets as she looks around. She doesn't know anyone besides Luna, although she has a feeling the twins with vibrant red hair are Weasleys.

"For instance, Bell over there likes girls, not boys," Snape explains, looking a bit flustered. "You're a girl. The Weasley twins are bisexual. Luna here is non-binary, I believe you said?"

"That's right," Luna grins, playing with the ends of her hair. "I don't really know what. But I'm not a girl, and I'm not a boy."

"Erm...so what am I supposed to call you?" Harry asks in confusion. Luna's grin widens.

"My name," she says, before disappearing into the crowd.

"Mingle, Potter," Snape orders her, and vanishes himself. Harry looks around, not knowing where to go or who to talk to. One of the twins notices her and lopes over, calling over his brother with a wave of his hand.

"Hey, Harry," the Weasley says with a broad smile. "I'm Fred. This is George. Welcome to the Refuge."

"What's bisexual mean?" Harry blurts out, face burning. Fred laughs, echoed by George.

"I like girls and boys," Fred explains. "Or...anyone. They don't have to be a girl or a boy."

"Like Luna, you mean?" Harry crinkles her nose.

"Yeah, although she's a little young, Potter, I'm not into infants," Fred snorts. George elbows him hard.

"She's ten, not an infant," George reminds him.

"Point still stands," Fred grins. "Angelina's non-binary, too. Agender. She doesn't feel like any gender at all, but she can't tell her folks that, because they don't understand."

"My-the Dursleys don't understand, either," Harry says, shoulders slumping a little.

"Well, that's their problem," Fred starts.

"Isn't it?" George finishes.

Marginally cheered up, Harry smiles.

"Yeah, I guess it is," she says. "What is this place, anyway?"

The Refuge, Fred and George explain, began the first year their older brother Bill started Hogwarts. It was actually founded by Professor McGonagall, but some of the professors take turns leading and chaperoning. _Which would explain Snape,_ Harry surmises. It was meant to be a safe place for those who fell outside the norm in some way, whether through gender, orientation, or anything else. (Which explains the second year with bright red hair and shiny silver forearm crutches.) The professors in the know about the Refuge would keep an eye out for troubled students and invite them; older students were encouraged to recruit as well.

"But it's all supposed to be a secret," George finishes, his twin nodding earnestly beside him. "Even from the Headmaster."

"Why him?" Harry scrunches her forehead in confusion. "He's the Headmaster, doesn't he know about all clubs?"

"Not this one," Fred answers, shaking his head. "The Headmaster isn't very...accepting, Harry. You'd think he would be, considering his uh _previous relationships_, but..."

"He's not," George continues. "I got a feeling he's really not gonna be about you."

"Why?" Harry asks, feeling like a broken record.

"You're supposed to be the Boy Who Lived," Fred says, rolling his eyes. "His mascot. But you aren't. You're a girl. Shakes him up."

"Exactly," George chimes in.

"Are you two quite finished monopolising Miss Potter's time?" Snape drawls beside them, badly startling Harry, who nearly leaps back into the wall. She can feel Snape's eyes on her, assessing her, calculating, and her shoulders hunch up.

"My...apologies, Potter," the Potions professor mutters. "I did not intend to frighten you. I merely wished to inform you that all newcomers are expected to report to the side room for an orientation of sorts."

"It's okay, Professor," Harry says, nearly shoving past him in her desperation to flee to the side-chamber.

"Odd," Snape murmurs. The twins nod in agreement.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Notes: Ack. I'm sorry. Writer's block and dissociation combined like an avalanche. I shall try to get back on track now, though! Thanks for the reviews, you all are lovely. *squashes* Onward!_

The orientation in the side-room is presided over by Angelina Johnson, who tips Harry a friendly wink and a smile as she directs Harry to sit down next to Luna and the second-year on forearm crutches she doesn't recognise.

"Welcome to the Refuge," Angelina says, smiling wider now. "My name's Angelina. Although I prefer using the pronouns she and her, I'm actually agender. What that means is that I don't feel like I have any gender at all. I'm not a girl, I'm not a boy. I'm genderless. I suspect some of you have a similar experience with gender. Perhaps some of you didn't have words for that feeling until now."

Looking around, Harry can see stifled nods of agreement.

"That's what the Refuge is here for, in part," Angelina continues. "To be a safe haven. To let you explore. To help you put words to those feelings, those ephemeral experiences and parts of _who you are_ that you didn't know had a name. That you didn't know other people experienced.

"Professor Snape is actually the one who helped me realise who I was," Angelina smirks at the scowling man just slipping into the room. "Take it away, Prof?"

"It's Professor Snape, Johnson," Snape says rather testily. "But yes. Although few know it, particularly outside of these walls-_and it better stay that way_-" his glare could have melted glass, "I myself am genderfluid. This means that my gender changes. Sometimes I feel masculine. Sometimes I feel feminine. Sometimes neither. Growing up, my irregular gender expression made me a particularly choice target for...bullies."

Harry feels her stomach twist at the anger clouding the Professor's face. Anger mixed with...hurt? It's an expression she knows far too well from her own bathroom mirror, and she doesn't like seeing someone else look that way.

"The Refuge will be like your family, your home away from home," Snape continues, shaking away the bad memories with a flip of his cloak. "Inside these walls, there are no Houses, no House rivalries. Points will not be taken, punishments will not be doled out." He looks especially sour delivering those words, and Harry has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Unless, that is, your offense is particularly egregious," he adds with a sneer.

"And one more thing-do not speak of the Refuge outside these walls. Not even to your fellow Refuge members, unless you are under advanced silencing and privacy wards. The older students will be teaching the first years these next time. It is important. Do not tell the Headmaster any of what goes on at these meetings. The only Professors you may currently speak to at the moment, albeit in private, are myself, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Sprout. If an emergency comes up, contact one of us. If you cannot easily get a hold of us, call for one of the house elves."

He pauses and looks around, his expression softening marginally.

"Welcome to the Refuge," Professor Snape finishes, and slides back into the shadows.

Later, as Harry trudges back to the dormitory with Luna, she can't stop smiling. Or thinking about it all. She's not alone. She has concrete _proof_ she's not alone. Even her _Potions professor_ is like her, at least in some way, and she could practically skip. The only reason she doesn't is because Luna will probably skip with her, and make it seem even more odd than it already is.

The torches flare just ahead of them, and Harry stops dead, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

"Luna, wait," she hisses. Luna stops obediently, her head tilted to one side.

"Let's go back," Harry whispers, her words tumbling over themselves. Her wand's out, but she can't even remember taking it out of her pocket.

"Oh, don't leave on our account," a hoarse voice says just around the corner, the boy's shadow stretching out grotesquely across the corridor. "I'm _so_ glad to see you."

_Shit,_ Harry thinks, grabs Luna's hand, and sprints in the opposite direction as fast as she can, her shoes skidding on the slick stones.

"Get him!" she hears the hoarse voice direct, and the sound of pounding feet behind them. "Get the freak!"

"Faster," Harry pants, hearing Luna's winded gasps. "Sorry, Luna, faster!"

They put on an extra burst of speed, skidding around another corner, and another, until the sound of their pursuers is nearly gone, faded into the distance, and they're pelting along the corridor to their dormitory.

"Please just open up," Harry begs the bronze door knocker. "We don't have time for a riddle, please."

She could swear the eagle's head smiles, before the door swings open, and the two of them tumble inside. _Safe._

No one else is in the common room and Harry and Luna just sit there for a moment, pressed against the door and trying to calm their breathing. After a few minutes, Harry can hear loud, stomping footsteps outside, but the two Gryffindor bullies apparently don't think to question the door knocker and try to gain entry that way.

"Come on," Luna whispers, gently tugging at Harry's arm and getting to her feet. Harry follows her without question, too dazed by the sudden turn in the night's events.

"Harry, they were waiting for you," Luna says, her eyes round. "Why? Who are they?"

"They're nothing," Harry dismisses, biting her bottom lip and staring at the whorls in the carpet.

"That's why they called you a freak," Luna says sharply, raising one eyebrow.

"They...found me earlier," Harry finally admits, reluctant. "Were gonna beat me up and stuff. Called me a boy. The usual," she shrugs. "Professor Snape caught them in the act, though. Told them off. Guess they're still mad at me."

"You should tell the professors," Luna whispers, and Harry shakes her head so fast, she feels like she's gotten whiplash.

"They're just being arses, it's fine," Harry says. "Look, if anything bad happens, I'll tell."

"Something bad has happened," Luna replies, but drops it for the moment. "Let's go to bed."

Harry follows her wearily up the staircase, hoping against hope that she'll have a night free from nightmares.

She does not get her wish.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Notes: Thank you so much for the reviews! To address something that came up-Ron was paired with Malfoy in Potions because Malfoy got Sorted into Gryffindor in this story. ;) Also, Luna will at some point decide on different pronouns. Anyway. Onward! :)_

Green light splinters across Harry's vision, pain sinking hooked claws into her forehead, and a high, cold laugh echoes in her ears, as blackness overtakes everything.

She wakes up, gasping for breath, her scar on fire. For a moment she's afraid that it's bleeding, but when her fingers scrabble across it, it's dry, though hot to the touch. Hooking her glasses on, Harry slides out of bed, her pyjamas sticking unpleasantly with sweat.

"Are you all right, Harry?" a whisper reaches her, and she nearly leaps backward, tripping over her trainers and almost face planting on the ground. It's Luna, staring at her with far-too-large eyes, her hands wrapped tightly around her huddled knees.

"I'm fine," Harry whispers back, though even she can hear the lie. "Come on, let's get out of here."

The two pad quietly to the bathroom, where Luna takes up her now customary place in the shower stall, her blanket draped loosely around her shoulders.

"You had nightmares," Luna says. It's not a question. Harry shifts uncomfortably beneath her gaze, then nods.

"So did you," Harry replies, and Luna nods, a tiny gesture that she almost misses.

"I see my mum," Luna offers, but her eyes shift away, just a bit. "On the day it happened."

"I just see green light," Harry admits, awkwardly crouching on the cold tiles. "And I hear a laugh." It sounds so stupid, stated like that, but Harry doesn't know any other way to say it.

Luna just nods, solemn.

"I wonder if you hear You Know Who," Luna says, pulling her blanket tighter around her. Harry blinks at her, nonplussed.

"I...don't know," she says. For the moment, it has to be enough.

Harry isn't the only one who wakes early that morning. Across the castle, one Draco Malfoy wakes with a shout barely caught between tightly pressed lips. He has the bed closest to the door (mainly because no one wants to deal with him), and he makes good use of it now, hastening into his uniform and downstairs on still wobbly legs.

He dreamed of his father, following through on the thinly veiled threats of his last letter, and for once, Draco has no idea what to do. As far as he knows, you can't request a Re-Sorting, and not even his mother seems to have found anything on the subject. He asked McGonagall three times, but all she's told him is that the sooner he accepts his House, the sooner it will feel like home. She doesn't understand. He's a snake dressed up as a lion, and everyone knows it.

His hoped-for classmates, the Slytherins, point and laugh at him every opportunity they get, making no effort to be subtle. Would he in their place? He doubts it.

His own Housemates despise him. Call him a stuck-up prat, tell him that he doesn't belong. He _knows_ he doesn't belong, that's the point! And moreover, he doesn't _want_ to belong! But no one in so-called "authority" seems to agree with him. With a sneer, he settles down into the armchair closest to the fire, basking rather gleefully in its warmth. No one else is awake this early, not that he expected anything else. Gryffindor is full of laziness. He has no doubt Professor Snape runs his own House ten times stricter than Professor McGonagall, Head of teacher's pets and favoured ponces.

Ron Weasley, especially, hates him. Probably for all the not-so-subtle digs Draco made at his family, before the Sorting, when he was secure in his knowledge that he would be a Slytherin. He must be a Slytherin. And now look at him. He looks down at the red-and-gold-striped tie with a moue of disgust.

The only thing he can think of, at this point, is some sort of subtle campaign to show how immensely unsuited for the lions he is, and even better if he gets his erstwhile Housemates in trouble at the same time. But how can he manage that?

Tapping the tip of his finger against his bottom lip, Draco ponders, then slowly begins to grin. If he isn't mistaken, some of the older years have been laying a trap for Potter. If he holds his cards right, that could be his ticket to getting into his proper House. _And_ hurting Potter at the same time.

In the flickering glow of the firelight, Draco's smile looks particularly sinister.


End file.
